


Nighthawks

by rixie_rhee



Series: In the Mood [21]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Love, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 09:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20043649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rixie_rhee/pseuds/rixie_rhee
Summary: ...despite the tastefully sparkling bottles and glassware, he ordered soda water with a wedge of lime. He still misses his Vat 69, the way it would burn on his tongue and bloom in his belly, the color and the smell, despite the years since his last swallow.Nix leaned over the railing nursing his drink and waiting. He saw her coming up the steps before she saw him. She looked gorgeous. Her creamy skin glowed in contrast to her black velvet and tulle. She could have been a ballerina with her full skirt floating around her legs and hair pulled up revealing the graceful curve of her neck. The view from above was something any man would appreciate, showing her neck and décolletage to great advantage. The white opera gloves made her arms seem more naked than they were, calling attention to the three or four inches of skin below the velvet and above the satin. She glanced up and saw him, cigarette in hand. He raised his glass to her and winked.





	Nighthawks

When he’s got her on her back like this, with her knees hooked over his shoulders, he can see her face and the way her body moves under him, touch any part of her he wants--or that she wants, all Rissy has to do is ask. She doesn’t even need to do that, she can just put his hands wherever she wants them. He can get so far inside her and drink in every expression that flickers across her face. And with all that, it’s still intimate with so much of her pressed to him and her eyes locked on his, until she throws her head back and moans out his name. It’s perfect, even more so tonight because she’s fucking desperate. He’s giving it to her as good as he can. He’s put her through enough already, spanked and pinched and teased, called her the names that are really endearments--context is everything, after all--and now they’re both too far gone to play anymore.

He won’t be able to hold back much longer, not that there’s any reason to, other than he’s not ready to be done. Rissy sounds like a cat in heat, a beautiful pink blush is creeping up from her chest while she writhes under him. She’s doing her best to push back against him, clutching at his hips, begging him with her eyes screwed shut and fingernails biting into his ass.

And how can he deny her? He almost growls at her to spread her legs wider to make more room for his hands. She obeys and he grins above her, even though her eyes are still shut against seeing him. It doesn’t matter, she’ll hear it in his voice.

“Good girl. Look how pretty you are.” Her dark hair is a tangled mess on the pillow, tendrils stuck to the side of her face. Rissy’s pale, bare skin radiates heat, it always has, just like his does; the air between them has to be twenty degrees warmer than the rest of the room. He can’t see her freckles in the dark, but Nix knows exactly where they are anyway. He’s traced them God only knows how many times. His thumb finds her and she grabs his hip, pulling him in even further. His thrusting is barely under control, Rissy’s movements seem involuntary. She’s almost screaming, just please, please, please mixed with his name. Her muscles tense under her skin, her back and thighs are tightly flexed and unyielding. Her fists twist in the sheets. The diamond he bought her is caught in the hollow of her throat, rocking with their motions. She’s got to be really close.

He’ll let her come this time, no more drawing her back; he doesn’t think he could anyway. His cock isn’t gentle but his thumb is. He kisses the inside of her knee, she gropes frantically for his free hand. Rissy moans, her hips roll, she yells his name--and then she bursts into tears.

And even though he was goddamn close himself, Nix lowers Rissy’s legs down to the mattress, drawing back so he can look at her. She lets him gather her to his chest and kiss the tears from her face, Rissy’s limbs are warm and loose.

“Are you all right, my baby? Did I hurt you?” His eyes dart over her body and his hands follow, only now with concern instead passion. He’d been completely oblivious to everything but what they were doing and how good it felt, but he wouldn’t hurt her, not in a way that didn’t give her pleasure, too. And even then, only if she said it’s alright. Like any other game, this one has rules.

She shakes her head weakly.

“Let me look at you.” He turns on his bedside lamp. Mascara rings her eyes and her breasts are heaving. Her nipples will be sore tomorrow. Bruises stain her hips, fingerprints she’ll wear for the next few days. She’s red and swollen between the legs. (He’d spanked her there. Hard, but only with an open palm. He’d used his belt a few times first--from the trousers he’d had on earlier, you’d never, ever wear a belt with a tux--just playing, not any force behind it at all. The way she lifted her hips to him while asked for more and her squirming made for a lovely visual.) She’s hot to the touch. He swallows, takes a deep breath. Their room smells of sex. Rissy’s rapid breathing slows but she’s still quietly crying. He presses his lips to all her tender places, murmuring that he’s sorry, so, so sorry, he didn’t mean to hurt her. He leaves the words in the hollow of the throat, in her hair, in the seashell of her ear.

“It’s not that, Lew,” she whispers. She tugs on his arm and a moment later he’s lying on top of her. His weight always seems to calm her down. She nuzzles against his stubble, burying her face in his neck before looking up at him. It’s getting lighter outside. Her exhale is shaky but her eyes are limpid and honest.

“Then why are you crying, sweetheart?” Their faces are so close together that his lips brush her skin. Rissy palms his cheek, guiding his mouth to hers.

“I-I just love you so much. I love you so much and what you were doing felt so good--” She swallows. “That’s all.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” The word is followed by a sigh.

“I love you, too, I love you so much.” His fingers comb through the damp silk of her hair, avoiding the snarls. “You know I wouldn’t hurt you, don’t you?” Nix curls around her back, wrapping his arms around her, pressing his lips to her neck, behind her ear. His cock softens against the curve of her hip; he’s not even thinking about all that anymore. This Rissy, his wife, his partner in loving debauchery, the woman who takes care of him, bore him children and takes care of them, too. She’s the girl he loves, the girl who loves him. The girl who saw through all his bullshit, who saw how loving and sweet and loyal he could be. The girl who forgave him for all his sins and loved him anyway. The girl who nudged him into being a better man, even though she would deny that. She would say he was already that way. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

“Lew, you really didn’t hurt me, I promise. It was just a little much and it’s late, that’s all. Really.”

This is true. It is late, so much so that ‘very late’ is almost obscenely early. Not that it matters in a city that never sleeps.

* * *

They decided they needed a little weekend trip, some time to be Rissy and Nix instead of mom and dad or Mr. and Mrs. Nixon. (Funny that he thinks of himself as Nix still. Rissy is the only one who ever calls him Lewis anymore, and it sounds different coming out of her mouth than it does anyone else’s. But at any rate, it was always easier to be Nix than Lewis Nixon III, or even Lew from anyone but Rissy.) He had left the office early, in a good mood, looking forward to a few days away. He and Rissy said good-bye to their children for the weekend, listening to the last-minute questions and complaints. Rissy was more patient about it than he was. Richie thought he was too old for a baby-sitter, Emma wanted to spend the night with one of her friends, Joy clung to them and cried she wanted to come too. Rissy promised to bring her back a treat from the city, and she hugged and kissed all three young Nixons and Lew kissed his daughters and hugged Richie, who was at the age when he merely tolerated affection. He’s a good boy, though, and goddamn it, Nix’s son is going to know that his father loves him beyond any shadow of a doubt.

They got in the small, impractical car and waved backing down the driveway. All three kids waved back, as did Bridget, who’d agreed to stay until Monday. Even though she’s cleaned up after them for years, known the girls since Nix and Rissy brought them home, knows their likes and dislikes, how to get them to eat and do their homework and get them to sleep, Rissy is still worried.

“They’ll be fine.”

“I know.”

He put his hand on her thigh, pushing up the hem of her dress. She flashed her underpants at him, giggling the way she had when his clothes were all green and brown and their relationship was a delicious secret just between the two of them. He turned to grin at her in the afternoon sunshine. His thumb stroked the space above the top of her stocking, she didn’t push his hand away, instead she gave him a puckered smile and her dimple.

They were perfectly decorous in the lobby and the elevator and down the hall. After all, they share a bed every night now. Nix tipped the bellboy and locked the door behind him. Then he and Rissy stretched out on the bed, but only to take a nap. After more than a few good-night kisses, but that really goes without saying, even now.

They woke in time to wash and dress for supper. She came into the bathroom while he was shaving, perched on the closed toilet in a thin robe. All he had on was the towel swathed around his waist. Nix told her it wasn’t fair that she had something on and all he had was a towel that could fall off at any moment. It really was hanging precariously low on his hips. She gave it a sharp tug and skipped out of the bathroom, leaving Nix naked and alone. She was dressed by the time he came out of the bathroom. Rissy tied his tie and Nix kissed her so that she had to fix her lipstick and he had to wipe his mouth with a tissue. Then he took her hand and led her outside to a yellow cab.

The waiters were in dinner jackets and the tablecloths were snowy white in the warm, soft light. Rissy’s diamond glittered at her throat; she played with it whenever she laughed. Then off to the theatre once dinner and dessert were eaten, to see a musical because Rissy likes them. Nix rolled his eyes because he doesn’t particularly, but he wants her to be happy. They sat in muted-red velvet seats and it wasn’t that bad anyway. Even if dancing street gangs are ridiculous. The forbidden romance made Nix smile to himself. It doesn’t seem possible that it was fourteen years ago that he’d met a girl who made him feel the same damn way. And equally impossible that the same girl was still right here next to him with stars in her eyes, clutching her Playbill.

He watched her almost as much as he watched the actors on stage. The fine gold chain at her throat moved with her pulse. Whenever he leaned to whisper in her ear or she shifted in her seat, spring flowers filled the air. Rissy told him once that her mother said that perfume should be discovered, not announced. He wanted to find it. His nose and lips grazed the back of her neck. Rissy gently pushed him away, but a minute later she turned to him and pressed her mouth to his. He slipped his arm around her and she settled comfortably into the crook, her head heavy on his shoulder. His fingertips traced patterns on the bare skin of her arm.

At the intermission, she whispered that she was going to the ladies’ room. Nix went to the bar while Rissy was gone, and despite the tastefully sparkling bottles and glassware, he ordered soda water with a wedge of lime. He still misses his Vat 69, the way it would burn on his tongue and bloom in his belly, the color and the smell, despite the years since his last swallow. It’s worth the struggle, not only for his own sake, but because his wife looks at him like she did when their love affair was still brand new.

Nix leaned over the railing nursing his drink and waiting. He saw her coming up the steps before she saw him. She looked gorgeous. Her creamy skin glowed in contrast to her black velvet and tulle. She could have been a ballerina with her full skirt floating around her legs and hair pulled up revealing the graceful curve of her neck. The view from above was something any man would appreciate, showing her neck and décolletage to great advantage. The white opera gloves made her arms seem more naked than they were, calling attention to the three or four inches of skin below the velvet and above the satin. She glanced up and saw him, cigarette in hand. He raised his glass to her and winked. When she was at his side again, she took his hand and led him off into a corner, behind a potted tree. They stayed there until the lights flickered.

He held her hand in his lap all through the second act, their fingers laced together until it was time to applaud.

Everyone filed out of the theatre into the street. Once the crowd broke up into twos and threes and dispersed into the night, Nix swung his girl around in an impromptu dance right out on the sidewalk. Rissy laughed aloud, Nix bent her back over his arm and buried his face in her throat with a growl.

“Soon,” she whispered. He righted her and took her hand.

“Let’s take a walk,” he’d suggested. And that’s how they’d ended up wandering, her in her dress and him in his tuxedo. He kissed her under a lamppost. They ended up in a diner with bright fluorescent lights and oatmeal-colored plates, all cherry-red faux leather and chrome and perfectly clear plate-glass windows. Rissy stripped off the gloves and left them on the table; he could finally touch her hands. He had a coffee and she had a Coke, and they split an enormous hot fudge sundae, feeding each other with the long spoons. Rissy’s pink fingernails and lips shone, even her toenails were painted pink. Her feet rested in his lap under the Formica table-top--they had started to hurt in her heels. Truth be told, her feet were more enticing bare than in her shoes. Nix couldn’t take his shoes off, but he loosened his bowtie, letting the ends hang. Rissy thought he looked unfairly appealing with his whiskers starting to show.

The sour-faced waitress shot them pointed looks as soon as they sprawled across from one another in their booth. Nix and Rissy were too busy laughing and talking to notice her nearly palpable irritation. She wanted to get off her feet or smoke her cigarette, preferably both. Instead she was forced to wait until the coffee and ice-cream are gone to bring the bill. She rolled her eyes when Rissy asked for a plate of French fries. She needed her nicotine and her feet were sore. Rissy gave her a sympathetic glance; Nix shook his head. Not at the waitress--any former soldier is familiar with aching feet and most are familiar with nicotine cravings as well--but how his wife is sympathetic to almost everyone.

The waitress disappeared after she took their second order. It didn’t really matter, the place was nearly empty. There was only one other customer, a man buried in his newspaper, drinking cup after cup of coffee. It made Nix think of the Edward Hopper painting, the one that always struck him as lonely, melancholy. He didn’t feel that way at all. The painting’s perspective is from the outside looking in, maybe looking out from the brightly lit inside accounts for the difference. It’s a good place to be.

The waitress seemed to be in a marginally better mood when she came back.

Rissy favored Nix with a mischievous smile and they picked at their fries. She fed him the last one, and in a completely inappropriate gesture, he licked the salt off her fingers. Rissy turned his wrist so she could see his watch. Her thumb ran over the bone, right below the cuff. It was the first place she ever touched him.

“Oh my God, Lew, it’s almost three-thirty.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of here, young lady.” He left a huge tip on the table, feeling happy and generous, drunk on ice-cream and love and being out late at night in the city. It was a minor miracle when a cab pulled up to the curb almost immediately. Nix held the door for Rissy, who slid over to the seat behind the driver. When Nix climbed in himself, he pulled her back into the middle, almost into his lap. He tasted sugar and salt on her lips and tongue, love and desire in their heated kisses. The driver ignored this, neither Nix nor Rissy had any more shame tonight than they ever had.

They had to be a bit better behaved on the sidewalk and in the hotel lobby. He hurried her through the hotel lobby and into the elevator. When the door opened they nearly run down the hall. Rissy’s shoes dangled from one hand while Nix pulled her along by the other. He pressed her back to the door with a thud, his mouth was at her lips and neck and shoulder while and he fumbled blindly with the key. She clutched at him, pulling his face to hers by his undone bowtie; his free hand was on her ass. Who knows what would have happened if he hadn’t gotten the door open. He finally managed to turn the key in the lock and they nearly spilled onto the carpet. Clothes were coming off almost before the door shut.

What she had on under the dress was…provocative. She’d laughed nervously; she always did that when she was trying to be seductive, even after all this time. Nix’s predatory expression quelled Rissy’s giggles.

Now the gown is thrown over the chair in the corner, one black pump lays on its side next to its mate, and the filmy lingerie is lost somewhere in the sheets. Nix’s clothing is scattered around the room. Rissy is still cradled in his arms, almost drowsing.

“I had such a good time tonight, honey.”

“I did, too.”

“Even though I made you cry?”

“You didn’t. I just--Remember what it was like when it was just us and we were still young? I felt like that tonight. When I looked up and saw you watching me, I got butterflies.”

“Still?”

Rissy nods, pressing her lips just below his ear, in the tender spot behind the curve of his jaw. She nods into his throat.

“We aren’t that old, baby, but I do know what you mean.” He yawns widely in her ear and a few seconds later Rissy yawns, too. Then they laugh together in the dark. The sky is beginning to show streaks of light.

“We stayed up all night. We haven’t done that in forever.”

“You know what I think we should do?”

“Hmm?” She closes her eyes when he kisses her and they stay that way when he’s done.

“Let’s go to Paris in the spring. Just you and me, and we can run all around all over and stay up as late as we like.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“It will be. You’d like to go?”

“Yes, please.”

“I have another idea. But I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

“Hmm?”

“What if we get a new house? I think we need more room.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah? I know you love the one we have now.”

“Yeah.”

“You know, it’s really sexy when you don't give me anything but one-word answers.”

“Tired.” Rissy makes no attempt to stifle her yawn. “I’ll be with you.”

He doesn’t know what she means for a moment, but then he realizes what she’s trying to say. “Oh, the new house?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You’ll be with me wherever you go.” One corner of her mouth turns up ever-so-slightly, the dimple almost appears. “Baby?”

“What?”

“Go to sleep.” 

* * *

And in the morning, really just a few minutes before noon, he wakes up. Rissy’s mouth is warm and wet and talented. She grins up at him, eyes dancing.

“Good morning.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.” She mouths the word back, crawling closer, throwing a leg over him, settling down on him, moving, her fingers running over his arms and chest, over his face, through his hair, all the while murmuring how much she loves him.

* * *

Later, she fills up the bathtub with the hottest water they can stand. Their skin pinkens while she lays against him, sitting in the V of his legs. His chin rests on the top of her head, the water up over her shoulders. How many bathtubs have they sat in just like this? Now there’s always enough hot water. When it cools, Rissy will pull out the plug by the chain with her toes and turn the faucet with her foot so she can stay in his arms. There were times when the water was tepid at best and the tub was chipped and dingy even if it was clean. And once upon a time, there would have been a glass beading moisture somewhere nearby, but that’s no longer the case either. The constant has always been the embrace, and that’s the best part anyway.

The remnants of Nix’s pre-war life--for example the symphony tonight and the frankly decadent meals in dimly lit restaurants, clothes that whisper against your skin, museums and beaches and music and books and traveling (with decent accommodations, no more troop ships or sleeping in holes in the ground, thank you)--are all things he always loved or at least enjoyed; he’s only kept the obligations he likes. The threads of his life and Rissy’s came together to make something wholly pleasing and completely their own.

Maybe tonight he’ll take her on a carriage ride through the park afterwards. Somehow, that’s something they’ve never done. It’ll be late enough to hold her and kiss her while the horse’s hooves clip along. He’ll have to give her his jacket--he’s seen the dress she’s wearing tonight, a silky, airy ivory thing too simple and cut just a little too low to be bridal. In its own way, it’s just as tempting as last night’s lingerie. Sunday, they have no plans at all beyond breakfast in bed and finding gifts to take home. There’s an indoor pool. Rissy would like that; she’s still his nixie. And, of course, there are a million other possibilities in the city. Then they’ll go home to the life they’ve created together and a house full of people who love them and who they love beyond reason.

All that will be later. For now, Nix is warm and comfortable and drowsy. He leans his head back against the lip of the tub and holds his wife tighter. Their limbs tangle together, her hand finds his under the water.


End file.
